


Mr. X

by shortwavemystery



Category: Ultravox - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortwavemystery/pseuds/shortwavemystery
Summary: 1984: A dispute with Ultravox's surly percussionist takes a particularly sour turn.
Relationships: Midge Ure/Warren Cann





	Mr. X

It was just like Warren to take things too personally, and end up storming off and slamming the door behind him. What did he expect after spending another day in bed, crawling into the studio at night, and nit-picking a nearly finished track he'd had nothing to do with earlier? He could get so petulant sometimes, like a teenager who's told he can't go out somewhere. It was almost a shame he was so important to Ultravox...but there was nothing to be done about that. Nor the fact that recording in the home studio meant that the go-to room for such seclusion was Midge's own bedroom...

Midge knocked somewhat gently on the door, without saying a word. He heard a creak of the bed-springs from within, and a moment later, the door opened for him, letting a greasy plume of cigarette smoke spill out into the hallway. 

Midge's eyes were drawn first to that dull ember on the end of his cigarette, so omnipresent, it practically counted among Warren's facial features. His narrow, piercing eyes were even more intense than usual, as anger fanned the flame of his psyche. Sucking in his cheeks to draw on that smoke highlighted the heart-shaped outline of his face, with high cheekbones and a narrow, pointed chin. And he held his cigarette just like an old-time movie star, between the index and middle fingers of his hand. He was always so mannered, carefully cultivating his own image, as if he was always being observed.

"I only opened the door because I was expecting Chris," he spat at Midge, leaning forward through the frame and looking down on him as though he were a child. He made a few inches of height difference in his favour feel like a few feet. "Why did you come up here?" he demanded.

"To talk to you," replied Midge, trying his best to be firm, but civil and respectable, and not escalate things further. "I know I hurt your feelings, and I want to make things right."

"I still don't see why you didn't send Chris to try and smooth things over," proceeded Warren. His deep basso voice had an almost booming quality to it when he was upset. 

"I chose not to," began Midge, "because I thought it would mean more for you to hear it straight from me. I want you to feel like you actually like working with me. As opposed to just tolerating me, because I'm a friend of your friend." 

Warren had been wedged, archly, between him and the rest of the room, as if he was standoffishly denying him entry on purpose. But now, he seemed to like Midge's answer, letting the door swing open the rest of the way, and removing his other hand from the door frame. "Alright. Go ahead and say your piece," he said, walking over to the ashtray on the nightstand, tapping the end of that cigarette to deliver its payload. The ashtray was full of cigarette butts, and as he took a few steps inside, Midge noticed an empty pack of them, yawning right next to it. How long had he been sitting here already, pouting and chain-smoking in this funk?

Unsure of whether he should sit down--or, if so, where--Midge stood in the middle of the bluish haze, about to resort to biting his cheek to keep himself from openly gagging. "Listen," he said, collecting himself, "I want you to know that even if we don't always agree, you're allowed to have your own opinion. It's not meant as a rejection, or any sort of insult towards you. We all--"

"Is that right?" snapped Warren. "You're going to give me permission to have an opinion about what we do? I'm a grown man, Midge. I already have a right to my damn opinions, whether some blowhard bestows it upon me or not." He took another, long drag of the cigarette. Midge could see how quickly the orange ring advanced downwards towards his lips. Having that physical release must have been the only thing keeping smoke from billowing out of his ears instead.

Warren sat down on the edge of the bed, knocking the ashes away again with a flick of his thumb. He stared at the floor, with knots in his strangely manicured brows, and tension bound in his flexed thighs. He looked unapproachable--no, he was making himself look unapproachable, Midge corrected himself in his mind. Acting.

Cautiously, Midge stepped over to him, and sat down gently beside him, hardly making a sound against the springs. He felt like he was trying to gently set foot inside a bear trap. Before he could open his mouth to offer some more appropriate consolation, Warren turned his head, staring straight through him, and snuffing whatever thought had been cresting in his mind. Those clear, green eyes had always been striking, especially when they betrayed his creative vision and foxish intelligence. Now, they were full of vitriol, transformed into bubbling cauldrons of disdain. "I don't care that you're sorry. That you say that you're sorry. You were sorry before, and if I'm dumb enough to let you, you'll be sorry again."

How barbed! Midge made a note to himself not to try this again. Negotiating him down was clearly a special skill that was better off designated to Chris, after all, right alongside bass guitar. "We all appreciate you very much. You do contribute a lot, to everything we do, and there'd be no Ultravox without you. Even if you're not the easiest to work with sometimes."

"I'm not the easiest to work with?" Warren fired back, gesturing unctuously at his own chest. "What do you think it's like working with you, and your massive ego? All you want to do is boss everyone around, have us do nothing but read your mind and give you whatever you want. I've got news for you: we're a band. We're human beings with our own ideas. And you know what, Midge? We were a band for years before you even showed up. I think there are times you forget about that." He took another drag, closing his eyes tightly, and turning his face away.

"Maybe it doesn't always come through the right way," offered Midge, tempering his voice carefully, "but I can promise you, I do respect these things. Just like I respect you very much, as a musician." 

He moved to put an arm around his shoulders, hoping to express some solidarity, but Warren batted him away in an instant. It was bewildering how quickly he reacted, like some eye on the back of his head saw it coming. "Don't fucking touch me!" he snapped. He took in the final remaining bit of his cigarette, sharply, and blew smoke straight into Midge's face. He couldn't help but turn away, coughing and fanning the air in front of his nose. "Be grateful I opted not to burn you with it. I'd have given you a mark right on your prettyboy face, so all your groupies can see it."

Perfectly aloof, Warren turned in the opposite direction, tamping out the butt amongst its fallen comrades in the ashtray. "Tiny, little Napoleon," he muttered, delighting in a low blow. "Amazing you have room for all that self-righteousness. Imagine where you'll be in a few more years, when those good looks fade…you can already see those balding corners." He pressed his finger up into the edge of Midge's hairline, and his surprisingly clammy, cold skin made it even more of a shock. 

Midge jumped up from the bed with a jolt, almost reflexively. How astonishingly callous! "Listen, there's no need to be so cruel like this," he insisted, hoping he didn't come across as pleading. "It's not going to make things any better between us. Don't you realize that?"

Warren took his time to respond, rising slowly and taking several paces away, like some sort of ceremonial guard. Midge was already growing exhausted by these theatrical shenanigans, but this seemed to rub it in even further. The way he would strut, through a room that wasn't even his...he knew just how to be irritating. "I work so hard," he said, indignantly, talking in the direction of the wall, "and people barely even know who I am. What I look like, what my name is, how much of me they're hearing. I don't think you understand how that can feel. And I don't think you want to."

Midge walked back over to him defiantly, nearly as offended by the attempt to create distance as anything else. He wasn't sure what he was trying to achieve, but he knew he didn't like it. "I came up here to try and understand," he offered, feeling like he was repeating himself to someone who refused to see reason. Warren was being truly ridiculous at this point, as he saw it--if he knew what the limelight really felt like, he wouldn't want it. He wouldn't know what to do with it. But how could he explain that the way things were would be better for both him, and for the whole band?

"Trying isn't doing," Warren replied ruefully, still refusing to turn to look at him. "I wish, for once, instead of trying to tell me you value me, you'd actually do something about it. Take some action, for a change."

Midge took a half step closer, and went to put his hand on Warren's shoulder to emphasize his point. Warren spun towards him, grabbing his wrist in his hand to completely block the gesture. And he was rough about it, too, leaving a sting under Midge's skin. He looked down at Midge, his face covered in shadows, and an expression of pure, instinctive, primal rage. "What part of 'don't touch me' do you not understand?" he hissed, nearly shaking Midge's arm for emphasis before letting it drop.

Before another "I'm sorry" could properly emerge from Midge's throat, Warren returned to his dressing-down. "I held my tongue earlier, but you know what else I could've called you? A fucking faggot, that's what."

The word sent a cold sweat across Midge's forehead, not to mention a wash of light-headedness, and a skipped heartbeat. Outside of British English, that wasn't a name for a cigarette. Like any slur, half the power, half the transgression, was in the sheer hatred surrounding it, dripping out from the mouth that uttered it, the way a dog drools. What was he going to say to that? Deny it, and look like a fool? Admit it, and hand something like that over to someone trying desperately to hurt him?

In the harsh light of the corner of the room, Warren's face looked ghoulish as he grinned over this new triumph. "Do you think I'm stupid? Billy might be--or, at least, too high to notice, or care. You, and Chris..." He shook his head over Midge, as though he felt some sort of pity, but with that looming smile still fixed. "If only me and Billy took turns sucking your cock, too, maybe then you'd give us the time of day. The moment I first met you, I had you pegged for a--"

"You're going to shut your mouth. Right this second," warned Midge, raising a fist almost unconsciously. He wasn't serious about it--how could he, whether it was Warren or anyone else? But he also was in no position to think clearly about much of anything.

Almost instantaneously, he felt Warren's hand wrap itself around his throat. As fearful as he'd been a moment ago, Midge could hear his own heart pounding in his ears now. There was no real pressure behind that grip--merely the threat of it--but it still felt like he could have lifted him up off the ground if he'd wanted to.

"I can't believe you don't know better than that," Warren nearly whispered to him, now that they were close again. He stared directly into Midge's eyes, no doubt savoring that look of sheer terror, and shook his head as though he were exasperated. "Take a look in the mirror for a change, and maybe you'll learn not to act so tough."

Warren let go of him, and Midge instinctively caught his breath, steadying himself against the wall to stave off that dizzy feeling. But he also felt Warren immediately behind him, the strange weight of his frightening aura. Warren rested one hand on the wall in front of them, half pinning Midge in place.

"What's the matter?" taunted Warren, his face only a few inches behind him now. "I thought, surely, you'd enjoy getting man-handled?"

"I don't appreciate being strangled, no," replied Midge, trying his best to convey his seriousness, despite the hoarseness in his throat. He wondered if Warren had tried to hurt his singing voice on purpose, but regardless of intent, he hated thinking about that. 

Warren merely laughed at his plight. With his free hand, he dove for Midge's crotch, teasing every contour through his trousers, like a king of the tease. "I told you, I'm done with believing your words. I'll put my trust in something else," he added wryly. Midge grimaced at the sensation, so pleasurable on its face, but in such a completely off-putting context. The fact that he still felt weak and faint only seemed to make it more acutely exciting. While a part of him hated knowing it was Warren's hand all over what was, increasingly, his erection, there was no doubt his body didn't care.

"I know you like that," Warren said into the crook of his neck, almost condescendingly. The vibration alone gave Midge a string of goosebumps across his shoulder, like dirty little pearls. He opened up Midge's fly rather deftly with just the one hand--percussionists and their sense of coordination. "Is that really all?" crowed Warren, taking the shaft into his hand. Now, that was the lowest of low blows. Literally. Midge would have loved to take a swing at him, shatter his jaw, and shut him up for good...but how was he going to do that from this position? Warren was a bit on the thin side, but he had such well-muscled arms. As lovely as they were to look at, Midge wasn't getting out of them anytime soon.

Warren proceeded with his cruel game, jerking him off roughly and at a bit of an odd diagonal. It was a maddening mixture of torture and shameless, lurid ecstasy. “Does that feel good?” he jested again. Midge pressed his teeth into his lower lip, petrified to make a sound. Was this some roundabout way of winning his approval? If it was, it was as desperate as it was bizarre…

“Come on....don’t act like you’re not enjoying this,” Warren continued prodding, leaning in and whispering his evil words in Midge’s ear. As conflicted as it made him feel, the advantages of this over a fistfight seemed plain. Warren suddenly quickened his pace, and Midge squeezed his eyes shut tightly in response to him. 

The inevitable was closing in on him now. Midge took a deep breath, still relishing the fact that he could. Physical release was so tempting and appealing now, after all that tension and hollering at each other. “How does that make you feel?” Warren insisted, again, refusing to accept his silence.

“Ahhhh--it’s--incredible,” was about the best he could muster, before his traitorous muscles and nerves got the better of his mind, once and for all. It was all he could do to keep his knees and forehead from collapsing into the wall. Behind him, Warren was laughing. But it wasn’t his cruel, demeaning laughter from earlier. No, this time it sounded satisfied, suffused with genuine mirth. As though he'd finally gotten what he wanted.

Warren gave him a few brief seconds to compose himself before grasping his shoulder and turning him around, like a rag doll. Midge got a brief glimpse of his face--and those eyes, sparkling as his wicked mind reeled with new ideas--before he felt that highly accomplished hand on top of his head, pushing him down on his knees. Oh, dear. He was full of ambitions.

He spared no time unveiling his other surprise for Midge. While he'd seen Warren by the poolside or getting changed backstage, this was one secret of his body that remained. And what a juicy secret it was: generously sized, with a fetching bend to the left and the telltale scar of circumcision, as alluringly exotic as that accent. At some point, he had been completely shaven, but now a bit of stubble was rising up in the usual spots. He really was "high maintenance."

But Midge had little time to appreciate the aesthetics before Warren's hand was back on top of his head, fingers tangled in his hair, and his cock was irritating his throat even further. He was even rougher and more callous than before, fucking his mouth with complete disregard for anything but his own amusement. Warren was eerily silent, like some sort of stoic, making his mind especially difficult to ascertain. Midge concentrated on not gagging, and breathing through his nose, for what felt like entirely too long. 

Until, of course, a burst of bitter liquid assaulted the roof of his mouth--he'd nearly forgotten how awful this was with someone who smoked and ate meat. But Warren also delighted in pulling out at the perfect moment, just in time to send a spray up into his mustache and irritate one of his nostrils. Midge coughed into his elbow, trying his best to be polite after such treatment, but Warren simply laughed at him again, with that mocking tone. Without another word, he zipped himself up and headed straight out of the door, as though nothing at all was out of the ordinary.

Was this...success? It was hard to feel good about anything, after being put down like that, and used like some sort of object. But if Warren had gotten something out of his system, surely that was for the better...as long as he kept his mouth shut.


End file.
